Chapter 6 - The Fall of Cedar Ridge
At that exact moment, two miles away at Cedar Ridge Farm, the morning mist was just beginning to burn off the pastures.
Travis Cole sat at the polished oak executive desk in the main farmhouse office—the very desk Daniel Mercer had built with his own hands twenty years ago. Travis wore a custom silk tie, sipped a fresh cup of imported coffee, and watched out the second-story window as his new ranch manager directed three hired hands toward the dairy barn.
Life was good. The farm was his. The local bankers were already calling to offer him lines of credit for the spring planting season.
Suddenly, the heavy front oak door downstairs exploded open with a deafening crash that shook the pictures on the office walls.
“What the hell?!” Travis shouted, jumping to his feet.
Before he could reach the office door, three heavy footsteps pounded up the wooden staircase. The door to the private office swung wide open, slamming against the drywall with a sickening thud.
Standing in the doorway were two men in dark tactical vests bearing clear yellow lettering across the chest: FBI SPECIAL AGENT. Behind them stood local Sheriff Miller, looking pale and deeply uncomfortable.
“Travis Cole?” the lead agent demanded, his voice flat and authoritative as he flashed a silver shield and a crisp warrant.
“Yes? What is the meaning of this?!” Travis demanded, puffing out his chest and adopting the haughty, untouchable posture of a man who owned the county. “This is private property! You have no right barging in here without an appointment—!”
“Travis Cole, you are under arrest for interstate wire fraud, mail fraud, and corporate identity theft,” the agent interrupted, stepping forward with professional indifference. He pulled a pair of steel handcuffs from his tactical belt. “Turn around and place your hands behind your back.”
“Arrest me?!” Travis shrieked, his face turning a mottled shade of purple as the panic finally broke through his arrogant facade. “This is a local civil dispute! Judge Miller threw this out yesterday! You can't touch me—I own this land!”
“You own a temporary custodial interest in a federal evidence locker, Mr. Cole,” the agent said coldly, grabbing Travis by both shoulders and spinning him hard against the oak desk.
The metallic click-click of the handcuffs echoed sharply through the room.
As Travis was dragged backward toward the staircase, kicking and screaming obscenities about lawyers, judges, and political connections, he looked out the second-story window one last time.
Down in the driveway, two black federal SUVs and a large flatbed transport truck had blocked the main gates. Ranch hands were standing frozen near the dairy barn, their mouths hanging open in stunned disbelief.
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Travis Cole was pushed out the front door into the bright morning sunlight, his expensive silk tie fluttering uselessly in the wind, straight into the back of a federal cruiser.
Cedar Ridge Farm belonged to Travis Cole for exactly thirty-four days.
